"Treve, how long are we gonna be like this?"

"I, I don't rightly know."

"And you've never done this with a human before?"

"I've never done this with anyone before, Pamela." They kissed.

"And, uh," Pamela asked, "when do, uh, does it all, er, end?"

"I'm uncertain. I mean, I don't know how much precedence there is for such things. What do you, uh, what do you generally do after, uh, afterwards?"

"Get a snack, watch the viewer, go to sleep, hell, I've left on occasion, sometimes."

"Well, uh, most of those are out of the question right now. Could you sleep, perhaps?"

"Uh, not with you on top of me, I don't think."

"Oh, well, um, perhaps if I rolled a bit, you could?"

"I'm still kinda wired," Pamela admitted. "And maybe still a little drunk."

"The, uh, the viewer, then?"

"I guess."

"Can you reach the remote?" Treve asked.

"Just, um, turn, um, yeah, there." She clicked it on. First the screen briefly showed the time – 0206 hours – and then the date – July the 13th of 2163. It was a cooking show, hosted by a middle-aged human woman and her eager male Andorian assistant. "This good for you?"

"That's, that's fine," Treve replied, "if I am to, to make you breakfast, then I'll need to know this."

"… and pound the chicken breasts flat with a mallet …"

"I don't think they're making breakfast, Treve."

"Oh, well, then perhaps we'll just have olowa in a few hours."

"How can you think of breakfast when we're like this?" Pamela asked.

"Well, I love you, and we'll be eating in a few hours, so why not think of breakfast?" They kissed again.

"Well, it's just a little weird," Pamela said, "I do love you, too, yanno, but, um, when do you think we should call a doctor if, uh, if things don't change?"

"By breakfast, I imagine."

" …. And turn the flame up to medium …"